


bail me out

by diydynamite (orphan_account)



Series: weightless (cow chop band au) [1]
Category: Cow Chop (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Gen, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 07:47:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11801613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/diydynamite
Summary: Brett just wants a drink. He saves a kid and finds a prospective band instead. All in all, it's not a terrible trade.





	bail me out

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by those stream videos of aleks playing the bass and also james' voice damn
> 
> title from the song by all time low

"Another whiskey, no ice." The bartender nods, and Brett slumps in his seat. It'd been a mistake going to a bar on his last night in Denver. There's nothing for him in Colorado, and he aches to be back in Los Angeles, where even the air is familiar with the smell of exhaust and cooked food. It's been a long fucking week of networking, mingling with this producer and that, handing over his shitty business cards and receiving empty promises of calls that he knows will never come, and Brett's never needed a drink more.  
The bar is the definition of dodgy, shadows gathering in every corner, barely dispersed by the light from the hanging lamps. At the very least, they have some sort of live entertainment, a lone singer and his guitar wailing away to the Top 40. It only serves to agitate Brett's already-frayed nerves, and it's a real relief when he steps off the stage fifteen minutes later. At this point, Brett's just very pointedly ignoring his phone and the way it beeps accusingly at him, probably Joel complaining that he should've been on a flight back tonight instead of tomorrow night, so he fixes his attention on the stage instead, taking in the band that's replaced the wailing man.

  
He'd heard potential the moment they started playing, through the shitty amplifiers and the jeering conversations of other patrons, hadn't flinched despite the awkward pauses, the too-soft microphone that their lead singer was practically screaming into, the stupid band name. Cow Chop wasn't exactly ideal, but if a band with the fucking name 'Panic! at the Disco' could make it big, so could they. Brett takes a drink of his whiskey, looking over the members critically. The lead singer looks Puerto Rican, at least six feet tall, hair pulled back into a neat bun, and he's got some fucking pipes on him; Brett doesn't doubt that the mic could be off and he'd still hear the guy all too clearly. To his left, the tiny lead guitarist riffs on an electric that looks about as big as he is, picking out melodies to complement the lead singer's power chords. Stage right is the bassist, some emo kid who can't be older than eighteen, a black beanie pulled over messy brown hair. Still, the bass thrums through the speakers, perfectly in sync with the drums, and Brett has to admit they're all pretty decent musicians for how young they are. The drummer, partially obscured by the others, looks like he's still in high school, but his beats sound like raw talent, and Brett might be going insane, but these fuckers sound legit enough for him to sign.

 

-

 

Their set ends half an hour later, and Brett hd been planning on approaching the band members, but he can't seem to catch a glimpse of them, and he indulges in just two more fingers of whiskey before making a move. The air outside the bar is crisp and chilly, and he's shrugging on his bomber jacket when he hears two voices, one panicked, the other accusing. It's none of his business, of course, but Brett's always been just a little too nosy for his own good, so he stands at the door, glancing around the corner casually.  
It turns out that the bouncer's got the bassist by the shirt, nearly pinning him to the brick alley wall. "You want me to call the fucking police?"  
"Let me go, dude!"  
"No chance. You're fucking underage, you think you can get away with fucking around inside?"  
"N-no!"  
"I saw you, ordering drinks and everything. Now your bandmates, they're smart, they got the hell outta dodge after they got paid. But you gotta stick around, try to fuck with the system."  
"Don't call the cops, I-" The kid cuts himself off.  
"I don't know. You gonna make it up to me?"  
The bouncer's tone is jeering, suggestive, and Brett's heard enough. He might be a regular asshole, but he's not going to stand by and watch a kid get taken advantage of.  
Brett steps into the alley, feeling a lot less brave than he'd like, fakes surprise and nearly shouts, "Hey! There you are, what the hell?"  
"Who the fuck are you?" The bouncer growls, releasing the kid's shirt. He stumbles back against the wall, darting pleading eyes at Brett.  
"I'm his manager. Come on, we gotta go. The others are waiting in the car." He directs the order to the kid, who doesn't move.  
"You know he drank? He ain't legal to drink yet." The bouncer shakes a thick finger in his direction. "I oughta call the fucking cops."  
"Here." Brett fumbles a crumpled fifty from his wallet. "Consider yourself paid off. Now come on, kid, we gotta go!"  
At this, the bassist seems to snap out of it, ducking under the bouncer's possessive arm and darting to Brett's side. The bouncer doesn't look too happy, but he takes the cash anyway, and Brett hightails it out of there, the kid in tow.  
They make it to the next block before either of them stop sprinting, but the kid stops before he does, swaying on the spot before dropping to his hands and knees, and throwing up in the grass next to the sidewalk.  
"Shit, kid, what did you drink?!"  
The guy goes to answer, but another wave of vomit interrupts him, and Brett has to turn away, staring up at the night sky and ignoring the retching sounds.  
"Where are your friends?" He asks when the noises seem to stop.  
"Pro'ly looking for me. Or they went home. I don't know." His speech is slurred nearly past the point of understanding, and Brett sighs.  
"Do you know your address? I can get you home."  
"Nuh."  
"No? What does that mean?"  
"Can't, I can't, go home like this."  
"Then what? Am I supposed to just leave you in the grass for anyone to take advantage of?"  
Instead of a reply, Brett hears a dull thump, and turns around to see the guy collapsed on the sidewalk. He's actually considering bringing him to his hotel, although he balks at the idea of lugging an unconscious teenager into his hotel lobby and heading to his room with the kid in tow.  
Fortunately, it's at this point that he hears a voice, growing rapidly louder until the person rounds the corner. It's the lead singer, and he runs up to Brett, features twisted into a mixture of annoyance and panic. "Hey man, you wouldn't have happened to see this guy, brown hair, wearing a beanie, looks like he's twelve or something? I lost my friend."  
Brett gestures at the unconscious guy, and the singer's features smooth into relief, and then crease right back into irritation.  
"Hey, thanks man."  
"No problem. Your band was playing back there in the bar, right?"  
The lead singer's already hauling the unconscious kid over his shoulder, but he looks up at this. "Yeah, why?"  
"Mind giving me your manager's number? I'm with Machinima Records."  
"Fresh out of luck, buddy. Our manager bailed on us last month." He spits in the grass, and Brett wonders if there's someone out there watching over him.  
"Then you're in need of a new manager?" He hands the singer his business card, the last one left over from a week of networking, and watches his eyes widen in shock as he reads it.   
"You're actually with Machinima?!"  
"Call me tomorrow, I'm only in Colorado two more days. I'm Brett, by the way."  
"James. This is Aleks. Hey, I'd love to stay and talk about how we could get signed to Machinima fuckin' Records, but, uh-" He gestures at the body slung over his shoulder sheepishly, and Brett nods in understanding.   
"We can talk more tomorrow."

 

-

 

The next morning, Brett wakes up with a splitting headache to the sound of his phone ringing. He listens to it ring, energy levels completely depleted, but the moment it stops ringing, another call comes through. The process repeats several times while he lies in bed, wishing for an early death, but eventually, Brett rolls onto his back, rubs his eyes, and gets up, blearily checking his phone.  
If nothing else, Brett's an opportunist, and something about Cow Chop told him it was the biggest opportunity that he'd ever find.

**Author's Note:**

> basically a couple hundred words of exposition :") 
> 
> comments appreciated! the next few fics will probably be better & have actual ship stuff in it


End file.
